Lastly, she showed no light at peak or poop, and no sound of officer's command or of boatswain's whistle came from her deck.

Only slowly and yet as though of set purpose she drifted in toward the quay.
Those who watched her, sailors such as ever linger about harbours seeking their bread from the waters, though among these were mingled people from the town who had come to this open place to escape the heat, began to talk together affrightedly, but always in the dread whisper that was the voice of this fearful knight.

Yes, even the hoarse-throated sailormen whispered like a dying woman.
"She's no ship," said one, "she's the wraith of a ship.

When I was a lad I saw such a craft in the Indian seas, and afterward we foundered, and I and the cook's mate alone were saved." "Pshaw!" answered another, "she's a ship right enough.

Look at the weed and barnacles on her sides when she heaves.